


Leather Jacket

by leere



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Improvised Sex Toys, M/M, Mirror Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Spanking, i wrote porn oops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-06 18:40:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3144506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leere/pseuds/leere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Pete didn't do anything for a moment, Patrick looked back to see him shrug that damn jacket off and drape it over the couch.<br/>"Don't wanna get come on it, huh?" he asked, smirking down at Patrick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leather Jacket

**Author's Note:**

> So Pete was wearing Patrick's jacket at the PCA's. Which most people found cute. I...was thinking other things. Which made me write this. So here. Have some porn.  
> This was inspired by a certain Tumblr user's rantings about the damn jacket. She'll probably never see this, but holy hell I just had to write about the shit she was bringing up because it was hot hot hot hnghhh.  
> This shit isn't real, okay, as much as I wish it was, and we haven't had to say this since 2009, but these days... if your name is Pete (us smutty fanfic writers fear you, bruh) or Patrick (get off the internet right this second, my sweet child), go the fuck away. Go fuss over your children or something.

"Where's my jacket?" Patrick shouted, getting down on all fours to check under the dressing room table a fourth time. "The leather one. Goddamnit, did someone take it?"

He got up again, about to stomp off and find whoever had taken it himself, when Pete slipped through the door, wearing Patrick's favorite leather jacket and grinning wide. He looked undeniably mischievous. "Looking for this?"

"Yeah. Gimme my jacket," Patrick said, grabbing at Pete's sleeve and tugging a little. "C'mon, I need that." 

"Mmm, but it smells like you," Pete said, fisting a hand in Patrick's shirt and pulling him in. 

Patrick slapped at said hand. "Stop it; you're gonna wrinkle my shirt."

Pete shrugged. "Too bad." He pulled Patrick in and kissed him hard on the lips, pushing him back until he was trapped between his body and the counter.

Patrick shoved at Pete's shoulders, managing to get away from Pete's sinful mouth to say, "Knock it off. We have to go in like an hour-"

"An hour's enough," Pete said, putting his hands on Patrick's waist. "Please?"

"Goddamnit," Patrick said again, but Pete was stroking his rough thumb pads over the exposed strip of soft skin between Patrick's shirt and pants, and it was kind of keeping him from thinking straight (he was definitely thinking gay, yep, not straight). He was relenting already, he could feel it. "Pete, stop-"

"Babe," Pete whined, leaning in to kiss at Patrick's neck, trying to nip at it until Patrick shoved at him again. 

"No hickeys," he snapped.

Pete sighed theatrically. "You're no fun."

"My shirt won't hide it. And if the fans see, they'll freak." 

"Whatever." Pete awkwardly and carefully lifted Patrick by his waist and set him down so he was sitting on the dressing room table, then grinned and went to stand between his legs. He kissed him again, passionate and hungry. Patrick kissed back now, his initial reluctance torn down by the feel of Pete's stomach pressed to his crotch. He rather liked how Pete had to stand on his toes to kiss him - it was different than usual, and definitely hot as hell. "Can I, uh." Pete pulled back and studied Patrick's face. "Can I-"

"Yeah," Patrick said softly. "Yeah, you can."

Pete smiled. "Hop down then."

Patrick did, frowning a little. "Uh-"

"Turn around. Pants off. Now."

 _Oh,_ Patrick thought. He swallowed, nodded, and turned, unbottoning his jeans as he did so. He tugged at the zipper, then pulled them down and off, stepping out of them and tossing them aside. Pete's hands were instantly on his hips, his fingertips digging in. "So pale," he said softly, to himself, as he pulled Patrick's briefs off too. Patrick shivered a little - it was cold, and he was nearly naked except for his t-shirt, and Pete was fully clothed - and then Pete was gently pushing on the small of his back. "Bend over the table," he said. "Please."

Patrick did, and he rested his forearms there and arched his back a little and put his head down, so he could bite his knuckles if he felt the urge to get loud.

"Good boy," Pete purred, and Patrick could hear the laughter in his voice, except he exhaled hard, willing Pete not to notice that he'd gotten harder at the words. Patrick waited quietly for a minute while Pete did something, what he didn't know.

"The door's locked, right?" he asked.

"Uh-huh," Pete said, sounding pre-occupied.

"And you have lube?"

"Um," Pete said, and Patrick felt a hand ghost over his ass, but he spoke anyway.

"You're not fucking using spit again. Last time you did - fuck, I swear to God, Pete-" Patrick suddenly felt Pete's breath on the back of his thighs, and he stopped talking, trying to look back over his shoulder. "Wha-" he started, but the question broke off into a moan when Pete spread him and put his tongue fucking _there_ , just a quick, long, dragging lick over his asshole.

"Um," Pete said, pulling away. "You haven't shitted in the last few hours, right? I don't want to, like. Ew."

"Oh my God, shut the hell up," Patrick said, trying not to let the desperation creep into his voice. "You gotta keep, keep doing that-"

"Yeah, okay. I hope to God you showered recently," Pete said, and he did, took his time, lapped at him until Patrick was a trembling mess and his knees were ready to buckle, and then his tongue was pressing inside and Patrick was groaning, stuffing his fist into his mouth and biting down as hard as he could. Pete briefly stopped to say, "Mmm, ass flavor; my favorite," and Patrick almost turned around to hurt him, punch him or smack him or something, but then Pete was reaching around and wrapping a hand around his cock and his mind went blank. Patrick thought he heard the sound of Pete sucking on something, but the hand stroking his dick kept him from focusing on what was going on behind him.

Then there was a slick finger pushing into him, and he groaned loud and rocked back, trying to get it deeper. Pete licked around it, mumbled something under his breath, and pushed another finger in. "Not painful, right?" he asked, louder, and Patrick could detect a concerned edge to his voice.

"Good," Patrick gasped, feeling Pete scissor the two fingers. It stung, just a little - Pete probably should have fingered him with the one digit a little longer before adding another - but Patrick wasn't about to complain.

Pete hummed and bent lower to mouth at his balls, and Patrick's head fell forward, muffled obscenities constantly flowing from his lips.

"Fuck, fuck," Patrick breathed, unconsciously pressing back for more. "Oh God," he whispered, feeling the warmth pool in his groin. "Oh God, oh fuck-"

"Don't come yet," Pete said, adding a third finger and twisting them. "Don't come, babe."

Patrick whined. "Fuck me already, Jesus-"

"I'll be fucking you, 'Trick. Not Jesus."

"Shut up, asshole, oh my God-"

"Don't say asshole right now," Pete said, struggling to reach something by Patrick's head. Patrick tried to see, but the position wouldn't let him. Then Pete was pulling his fingers out and something ribbed was being pushed into him.

"Is that - that's my fucking hairbrush," Patrick said, straining to look back at Pete. The brush was slimmer than any of the few dicks or toys he'd had up his ass in the past, but that didn't mean it still didn't feel thick and big inside him. He tried to keep the desperate edge out of his voice. "Why are you shoving my fucking hairbrush up my ass?"

"You gotta suck me so I don't hurt you," Pete explained, "and I don't want you tightening up again. Turn around. Come on, Patrick."

Patrick straightened awkwardly, reaching down to hold the brush inside him so it wouldn't slip out. _There's a goddamn hairbrush in my ass,_ he thought.

"Knees," Pete said, tugging his own pants down to his ankles. He wasn't wearing underwear. "On your knees, babe."

Patrick got down, moaning a little when he accidentally pushed the brush deeper into himself by sitting on his heel. He shifted, then looked up when he was confronted with Pete's dick. "Um," he said.

"Suck. Hurry up, I wanna fuck you. Wanna make you scream."

Patrick moved to press the makeshift sex toy deeper into his ass, groaned, and got a hand around Pete. "Yeah, yeah," he whimpered, wondering if he could get off just by using the brush against his prostate, if he could get the angle right. He exhaled and licked at Pete's dick, then took it deeper, trying to lubricate it as quickly as he could without choking on it.

Pete moaned, fisting a hand in his hair. "Your fucking mouth was made for sucking cock, you know that right? Every time, holy shit-"

Pete was always careful with him during sex, especially when he had to perform soon after, and he was careful not to thrust into Patrick's mouth at all, kept a hand clenched in his hair instead because he knew Patrick liked that, liked the slight burn on his scalp when Pete did that. 

Patrick pulled off. "Good?"

"Good. Up, c'mon, bend over the table."

Patrick reached to hold the brush in again, standing and turning to do as Pete asked. When Pete didn't do anything for a moment, Patrick looked back to see him shrug that damn jacket off and drape it over the couch. 

"Don't wanna get come on it, huh?" he asked, smirking down at Patrick. "Okay, let's do this."

Patrick nodded and bent over the table again, hand still on the bristly part of the brush.

Pete nudged his hand away, and Patrick rested both of his on the table for leverage. Pete pulled the brush out, tossed it carelessly aside, and then he was pushing in in one smooth moment, grabbing at Patrick's hair from the back and taking him like that, with Patrick splayed over the makeup counter and Pete buried impossibly deep in his ass.

It'd been a while, Patrick had to admit, but that didn't mean it wasn't as good as ever. "Gentle," he choked, pressing back against the bleach blonde's cock. "Shit - I don't wanna be sore on stage. Seriously, Pete-"

"Shh," Pete murmured, rolling his hips once. "Be quiet."

"Really, Pete, I-"

"You're being bad. Bad boy. Stop it."

"Oh, shut up. How-" Patrick was cut off when Pete slapped his ass with his free hand, hard enough to leave a red mark, and he yelped. "Hey! Don't-"

"Stop talking, you fucking slut."

And Patrick went silent, feeling Pete tighten his grip on his hair. He wasn't one for being called a whore or slut or whatever, but Pete sounded into it, yet he himself wasn't about it, so he just fell silent, deciding that was the best way to go. Pete established a rhythm, slamming in hard but not too hard. He let go of Patrick's hair after a bit, reached for his hips instead. Patrick gritted his teeth and buried his face in his arm, and then Pete, from behind him, said, "Want you to be loud for me, 'Trick."

Patrick moaned, definitely more for Pete than because it actually felt good. Then he huffed. "Okay, y'know what, I'm not faking. You're doing a shitty job."

Pete growled a little, pulling Patrick back by his waist so his ass was pressed to Pete's hips. He shifted, pulled out, then pushed back in. "There?"

"Damnit. Left, Pete."

"Here?"

"No! Oh my - oh, okay, there you go, there it is, yeah."

Now Patrick could enjoy it more, and he pushed back against Pete, who's thrusts got harder. He reached up with one hand again, gripped Patrick's hair tighter, yanked his head back a little and bit at his neck. "How do you want it?"

"Hard," Patrick said, because he knew that was what Pete wanted him to say. It was always what Pete wanted him to say.

"What? I can't hear you. Say exactly what you want, you dirty little whore."

"Fuck me hard, _please_ ," he choked out, keeping his voice breathy and desperate because Pete liked it when he begged, and Pete moaned, sped up his thrusts, and that was fine, yeah, he didn't mind that.

Until Pete said, voice harsh, "Open your eyes. Look at yourself, baby."

Patrick opened his eyes, caught sight of his own flushed face in the mirror, and immediately closed them again. 

"No, come on, I want you looking at yourself." Pete slapped his ass, the other cheek now, and it stung like a motherfucker, but in the best kind of way as the pain combined with the rolling waves of pleasure at every one of Pete's carefully timed thrusts.

Patrick didn't open his eyes, but his lips parted and he couldn't help the broken sobbing sound he let out.

Pete slapped his ass again, hard enough that Patrick cried out louder and clawed helplessly at the smooth table top, and Pete released Patrick's hair and reached around to lift his chin up. "Look."

Patrick finally relented, saw his slutty expression and fuck-me eyes and shiny red lips, saw Pete and his furrowed brow and open mouth, dark amber eyes locked with Patrick's baby blues through the mirror. He smiled slightly, crookedly, and got a hand around Patrick's cock, tugging at it. "You're beautiful," he said, and Patrick saw his lips say the words, hardly heard them, because he was spilling into Pete's hand and letting out a shrill moan, his release unexpected but explosive.

"Sh-shit," Pete gasped, eyes squeezing shut. He leaned his head down against Patrick's sweaty, t-shirt covered back, thrusting weakly into him. Patrick barely felt his blunt nails digging into his hips, then felt Pete's come inside of him, and he made a face. Pete stopped moving after a moment, opened his eyes, and grinned at Patrick through the mirror, looking satisfied as hell. "Good?"

Patrick nodded, swiveling his hips a little. The action had the head of Pete's cock brushing against Patrick's prostate, and he flinched, well-fucked and oversensitive. "Um. I think we need to change."

Pete laughed and lovingly patted Patrick's hip as he pulled out. "Yeah. I wasn't too rough?"

"The name calling was unnecessary," Patrick said stiffly, reaching for some tissues and holding them between his legs. "We should've used protection, too." Patrick gestured to the mess his orgasm had caused - there was white on the dressing room table, and his shirt was wet because Pete had wiped his come covered hand off on it.

Pete shrugged. "Eh. But it was okay?"

"Yeah. I didn't like the spanking or the name calling, though, again. Don't do that shit."

"Next time I want you to call me daddy," Pete grinned. "I'll spank you until you cream your panties, baby boy."

Patrick pulled a new t-shirt on, tossing the come stained one into the back of his closet. He glared at Pete. "No fucking way."

"Gerard and Mikey have a new brother named No?"

"I despise you."

Pete laughed and reached for Patrick's jacket again. Patrick beat him there and grabbed it before he could. "I don't think so."

"Mine," Pete said quickly, grabbing it and tugging it on before Patrick could protest. He grinned, adjusting the ridiculous bow tie he was wearing. "Thanks, Patrick."

Patrick's eyes narrowed. "That's _my_ jacket."

Pete rubbed the leather between his fingers. "Mine," he said again.

"Not-"

Pete reached for Patrick, pulled him close, and kissed him hard. He pushed him away. "You need pants, babe. As much as I love your legs, I don't think that's, um, appropriate for a show like this."

"No shit," Patrick said, pulling on the briefs and pants he'd been wearing before. "Where's my - oh."

Pete set the hat on Patrick's head. "Your hair's all fucked up."

"I wonder why."

"Sassy Stump." Pete grinned cheekily, watching Patrick pull a dressy jacket on.

Patrick rolled his eyes and went to leave the room, but not before Pete slapped him on the ass. He hissed a little at the sting. "God fucking damnit, stop that! What-"

"Mine," Pete said affectionately, palming Patrick's ass, and then he was running away, as giddy as a little kid.

Patrick huffed and followed him, shouting, "Nothing gay at the show, okay, Pete?" No one answered, so he just kept walking, trying to ignore the slight ache in his ass. 

When they were about to perform a few hours later, Pete took off the jacket, and Patrick pulled it on, grinning at him. "Mine." He reached down to cup Pete's crotch, easily with his nut-hugging leather pants, and he pecked him on the lips. "Mine," he breathed, smirking seductively in that awkward, weirdly cute but undeniably hot way only Patrick Stump could pull off. Then he skipped off, Pete watching him with narrowed eyes.

Pete was good during the show, thank God. He tried to get Patrick's pants off right before they stepped out on stage, managed to get his belt off, but Patrick stopped him and went out with his belt hanging loosely from three damn loops. He pretended not to notice, since he couldn't really fix his belt on stage in front of millions, but Pete kept grinning at him, though he kept his distance. Their performance was great, though, despite the belt thing. Patrick wasn't too sore and he could skip around freely. He wasn't that nervous, and his voice was fine, if a little shaky, though he pitied Pete and his ridiculous outfit.

During Iggy's performance, Pete leaned in over Joe and whispered, "Patrick, hey, can you dance like that?"

Joe glanced at Patrick, quirking an eyebrow, and Patrick looked around, then whispered back, "Possibly."

Pete grinned wide. "Give me a show after this thing's over, baby?"

"I'ma make you beg for it," Patrick smirked. 

"Oh God," Joe said, looking between them. "Oh _God_."

On stage, Iggy was waggling her huge ass around, but Pete could honestly say he had literally no interest in her at the moment. Because Patrick was grinning toothily at him and trying but failing at waggling his eyebrows, half hidden behind a traumatized looking Joe, and Pete figured that, yeah, Patrick's ass had been keeping him from checking out any other asses for quite a while, and it'd probably keep doing so for another ten years. Because it wasn't a bad ass. Let's be real.


End file.
